


Why the long hair?

by sylc



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 21:55:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18669136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sylc/pseuds/sylc
Summary: Lord Glorfindel contemplates his hair and existential anxieties in Imladris' healing rooms.





	Why the long hair?

The preoccupation was what bothered him the most. Here, his schedule was filled with tasks to complete that made sense to him and which accorded with his values. There, new warden platforms to confer with the wardens for their design suggestions. Over there, a structural weakness in the Bruinen's banks to divert soldiers towards assisting in their repair. At the house, the summer festival for the archers to prepare a participatory firing role throughout the day. And constantly there were soldiers to train in the barracks, horses to train, borders to patrol, diplomats and other councillors to negotiate with at the council table, appearances to make at events, and his own training to maintain and - where possible - to enhance through new techniques and additional practice. Not to mention the small particulars: a daily wash, a few moments in the garden by himself, time to attend to his checks with the healers, time to spend casually with his horse Asfaloth, and time to see his closest friends.

So it was peculiar to him that this particular anxiety dwelled inside of him. It had been inconsequential until the Balrog. Never in a prior battle had it proven a problem, although perhaps his hair had not quite been that long until Gondolin's final fall. That was why he had not elected to cut it, but he had no reason besides the otherwise lack of precedent and cultural tradition to maintain its length and as tradition was an unreliable justification in and of itself, the thought kept emerging in him: should he cut it?

Perhaps he should blame the tapestries which depicted the fall of Gondolin that he walked past every day to the council chambers. They showed the events of the fall and one of the tapestries especially showed the escape. There was the cliff face, there was the Balrog's fire, and there was his figure at the back of group, all clad in metal and with a long swirl of golden leafed thread extending from his haloed head. The artist had been too kind to his appearance; he looked like some kind of tiny God, and it pressed upon his anxieties and embarrassed him. It had not been like that, and dear Elbereth, he was hardly a hero. It was a task that many elves of his acquaintance would have undertaken had they also held the back of the group.

But regardless of hero complexes, the hair anxiety was not the tapestries fault. Not really. The nightmares still visited him and with far more frequency than the reminder of the tapestries, which he could avoid casting his gaze upon if he so wished.

Currently, his hair, unfettered, reached his hips. Another centimetre, however, and it would be at the length of the Fifth Battle. He remembered because he remembered painstakingly cleaning Fingon's blood out of it. As for the Fall of Gondolin, he had forgotten about its length then. There were too many other things to account for then and he had often ignored even bothering to unbraid it, so preoccupied had he been with trying to locate the missing Prince for Turgon and then to try to both enable Idril's escape route and ensure its secrecy. His hair had been the furthest thing from his mind.

He remembered it vividly, though. The balrog's hands could become so hot they could burn hair and skin. But when the balrog had reached for him, it was with the intent of dragging him down with him. And so the yank had come, his momentary relief and oh that shameful spark of winner's glee had bitten him swiftly. He had been pulled right off the edge of that cliff, a small amount of broken rock and dirt following him in his wake as he descended into the fissue. The sky shrunk. He remembered that: the blood red stained clouds over Gondolin shrinking within the frame of the mountain heights. And the balrog grasping at everything around them without success, and finally grasping him again by the hair and yanking him again, and then by the sword arm and turning Glorfindel so that he was above Glorfindel and Glorfindel was below and could no longer see either the balrog or the sky, but only the blackness rising towards them. He meant for Glorfindel to take the brunt of the fall. And with his sword arm captured and his head pulled back by his hair, Glorfindel could not wriggle out of it. But he did flip around his sword so that it would - hopefully - pierce the beast as they landed. He hoped. He had no idea. He just remembered everything shattering, and the most incredible pain that he had ever felt in his life. He hoped never to feel that pain again.

He shuddered. Whenever he thought about that end, he tried to cast it from his mind. Only rumination dwelt there, and he had too many responsibilities to dwell in anxieties about pain avoidance. Death was not the end, though it was tiresome to travel to Mandos, to traverse resurrection, the bureaucracy of Aman, and to travel back. What was not acceptable was the fact that it was all preventable and that there were some amongst them who did not have the safety net of Mandos: some would refuse resurrection, some went elsewhere, and if the tales were true, dwarves returned to the earth. And these were the souls that saddened and angered Glorfindel because if it was true, then this was the only agency that these souls would exercise in their lives, and however disagreeable in personality and self-centred some of them might be, and however irrational animals might be, it still struck him as terrible that they did not have such privilege. There was nothing special about High Elves beyond what - rightly - could be called a few circumstantial sycophantic decisions when they had all been young, naive, and - frankly - very stupid. That they had matured to see beyond their own interests and - sometimes - beyond their own species, was what experience had given them, something that inexplicably had not been given to either the dwarves or the Secondborn.

So why, given all these problems, did he still find that question - should he cut his hair - lurking at the back of his mind? There were so many other things more worthy of consideration than a question that - almost invariably - turned immediately to the shameful insecurity-revealing reply: "What will everything think?"

Bald was the punishment of prisoners for whom it was deemed social humiliation was appropriate, whether for them or for society's satisfaction. Upon resurrection, Glorfindel had witnessed Maeglin's public shaving. It had grated at him because he had known, from conversations with acquaintances at Mandos, that the Prince's mind had been deformed through Morgoth's torture prior to being returned to Gondolin and performing his crimes. The Gondolithrim in Aman, however, hated him so much that, for Maeglin to have any hope of returning to elvish society in some semblance, the highly probable threat of them lynching him upon setting foot in Tirion had to be abated. And that was something that, for Aredhel and Maeglin's sake, and for the sake of preserving the social morality of Tirion - so anxiously protected since its restoration after the Fëanorean crisis - had to be slaked. And so he had escorted Maeglin to Tirion and watched the elf kneel before the court, be stripped of his titles, and his head shaved. He could still remember the long silken black strands falling down the elf's thin shoulders and sliding down the white fabric clinging to his slim back to join the arc of black locks that grew on the pale tiles around the elf's motionless form. Maeglin had kept his head bowed and said nothing, no trace of protest in his demeanour. Glorfindel suspected that the elf desired punishment. He could not imagine his burden. To think about it made him want to cry.

Hair that was shorter than shoulder height was usually associated with recent enslavement such as the elves rescued from Angmar two years ago who had had their hair cut short or into a bob. Erestor, the chief councillor, had told him slavers' preference for cutting their wares' hair so short was driven by the need to efficiently access their necks to collar them in order to control them. That, also, troubled Glorfindel to contemplate. One of the rescued slaves was a former friend of his, Lindir, a minstrel who he had met in Lindon at Gil-galad's court, but Lindir did not talk so much to him anymore or indeed to anyone. He had been kept in the healing rooms for a long time after returning to Imladris, but Glorfindel did not know why and he had endeavoured to avoid eavesdropping on others' conversations regarding him out of respect for his friend's privacy.

Hair longer than that usually denoted the age of the elf and as such, the length of time that they had had at their disposal to grow it. But for an elf of Glorfindel's age, he had long exceeded the age of just leaving his hair to do as it would. And - he wishfully thought - vanity. But vanity was not so easily shed, as he had discovered.

He heard a shout outside the window of the healing room in which he was sitting on the bed, awaiting Elrond's return, his - likely broken - right forearm lying unwrapped on the bedside amidst a puddle of undone bandages and sling. He cradled it in his left arm and got up to walk over to the window to look outside in the direction of the shout. But there was no one in sight. He remained at the window, however, and looked across the greensward at the rushing waters of the Bruinen river that flowed past the house. He could not see anyone, but that was no surprise: it was breakfast time and the weekend. Most everyone was still asleep.

The door of the room opened behind him and he heard Elrond's soft tread as the half-elf reentered the room. "I am sorry about the delay," the half-elf apologised. "I took the time to make up a pain relief draught."

Glorfindel turned and looked at him. The question was on the tip of his tongue. Should he cut his hair? Should he seek someone else's input? His first concern was with what others thought, so perhaps he should appeal to someone with sufficient knowledge to be trusted as an authority. Elrond was such a person. He eyed Elrond pensively. But would Elrond even think about such a thing? The half-elf was not bound to the same traditions. He was not an elf. He pursed his lips immediately. It was terrible to exclude the half-elf, but the reality was that Elrond could choose to exit tradition more easily precisely because of his difference, however inappropriate it was to call the half-elf out on his hybridity.

"Glorfindel?"

Glorfindel looked at the cup and stirrer in Elrond's hands. He smiled. "Thank you," he said gratefully. "I can spare more time if you need to attend further to that other patient," he added.

Elrond shook his head. "There are others with her," he said, approaching him. "Besides, I see you so little that I relish the opportunity to see you away from a council table or not trying to embarrass me in the barracks."

"You would not consider it such a threat if you applied yourself more diligently to maintaining your physical fitness," Glorfindel reminded pleasantly.

Elrond snickered. "You are relentless."

Glorfindel chuckled. Inwardly, he kept silent the quiet reminder that this was precisely why Elrond had requested he lead Rivendell's forces. It was his job to push those residents who were capable of doing so, in order to protect the realm. He looked down at his cradled arm. "Is it broken?"

Elrond nodded. "Unfortunately." He held out the cup in his hand. "I want you to drink this and in a few hours, I will return to set it. And then you can look forward to a few weeks away from any responsibilities whatsoever. Elladan and Elrohir will step in to take charge of the barracks."

"It is just my arm," Glorfindel said.

"And I want you to take a break, which I have been nagging you to take for years now," Elrond replied. He nodded at the bed. "Sit down. You cannot hold that arm and a cup at the same time."

"Is that an order?" Glorfindel asked, as he turned away and retreated back to the bed. He sat down and placed his useless arm back down on the bandages. Elrond came over and gave him the cup, which Glorfindel immediately downed, ignoring the bitter taste as best he could. Elrond smiled sympathetically at him, as if sensing Glorfindel's hidden wince.

"I am sorry. For the taste, and the order. Because it is an order," Elrond replied. "I really do not trust you to take care of yourself. This is the second broken limb this year. It is unlike you."

"It is unusual, but I think it is coincidental," Glorfindel said. He returned the cup to Elrond who set it aside before sitting down beside him on the bed and beginning to assist him in replacing the stabilising bandages and sling.

"Is it? I rather suspect that something has been bothering you," Elrond said as he carefully, but securely wrapped the bandages around the obvious bend in the wrist. Glorfindel winced at the jolt of pain that flared in his arm. "Sorry," the half-elf murmured before continuing in his normal tone: "You rarely discuss your personal cares, but I wish you would. Your eyes and body language reveals much and I do worry, as I can see you do too."

Glorfindel reached up to pull his hair away from his neck so that Elrond could secure the sling behind it. He thought of Lindir, still bearing a long bob. He would try to re-establish a friendship with the elf during the next few weeks. The elf liked Asfaloth. Maybe they could head south for an afternoon.

"I came back to Middle-earth because I prefer my freedom," he replied quietly. "But in escaping veneration of the doctrines of the Valar and the High Elven Kings, one has to become one's own leader."

Elrond carefully helped Glorfindel arrange his hair back behind his shoulders and out of the twists of the sling. "That does not mean that you cannot share your concerns and solicit opinion," the half-elf replied. "It only means that you have a duty to rigorously examine those opinions. You cannot escape the possibility of error: even your own senses lie to you sometimes. Indeed, what you perceive already misses so much of what actually is, which preconception, unfortunately, only increasingly distorts."

"I would be far less efficient without those preconceptions," Glorfindel said.

"Perhaps you are just afraid of sharing yourself with others," Elrond suggested. He shrugged. "Or maybe you know something I do not know... and that thought is what intrigues me the most. It is not normal, you know, to choose to return to Middle-earth and leave riches, comfort, and peace. It is not normal to not take a partner. It is not normal to spend every day of one's life endeavouring to improve the lives of others and to not take leave for oneself except when forced to by injury."

Glorfindel felt a shudder inside of him and a rising heat in his cheeks. "Stop it. You are embarrassing me," he said quickly. "I am a high profile case because of the fortune of my birth. There is nothing wrong with living in accordance with one's values."

Elrond opened his mouth and Glorfindel quickly added, "Do not call me a martyr. I hate that. I chose this because I want things to be better, and it is achievable. That is all."

"I was not going to call you a martyr," Elrond replied, smiling. "I was just going to say that I agree with all of that reason and sentiment, and I admire it also. However, I am telling you that in spite of all of that I can see that something is bothering you."

That was one of the peculiarities of Elrond. With Galadriel and Cirdan, there was a commonality of heritage that bound their capacity to perceive the minds of others. With Elrond, Glorfindel had no such precedent and he had heard of the feats of the Maiar who served the Vala Irmo and Este, the Lord of Dreams and Lady of Healing. Mind manipulation, for example, could induce the tranquility of those resurrected elves who had been unable to live with the trauma that they had suffered in Beleriand. It was only more reason to be horrified at the unsympathetic punishment that Maeglin had been condemned to publicly suffer for the sake of appeasing the preconceptions of the narrow minded. Glorfindel did not know if tranquility could help Maeglin, however, or if Maeglin had refused to consent to an offer of it. He would still have to return to elven society afterwards, though. In retrospect, he should have tried to persuade the elf to come with him to Middle-earth. It was a thought that had frequently dogged him. Here, history was more pliable because the incident was less proximate.

Elrond rose, apparently thinking that Glorfindel was not going to respond. He took up the empty cup of sedative. "I am going to start my rounds," he said referring to his morning check of every patient in the healing rooms. "I will come and see you afterwards."

Panic was to blame for what happened next. "I was thinking," Glorfindel began quickly. He faltered when Elrond turned to look directly at him. "I..."

Elrond frowned.

Glorfindel considered, then decided that there was nothing very great to be lost in the sharing of his worry. "I worry," he said. "I worry about many things that I am not in a position to change or which are of no consequence."

"If you are worrying about something, then it is at least of consequence in that it troubles you." Elrond went over to the window and, turning, leaned against the sill so that he was facing Glorfindel. "You know the usual salves for this: talking to someone, sleeping draughts, sitting with your thoughts during free time that can be enabled by taking leave." He emphasised the last two words, prompting a rueful smile from Glorfindel.

"I have been dreaming more of late," Glorfindel admitted finally. "Not very pleasant dreams. I think it has been affecting my confidence."

"How often?" Elrond asked.

Glorfindel lowered his eyes. "Three this week. Four last week. I think I dream every night now because I usually wake in a sweat and panic after a nightmare, and I have been waking like that every night for months now, but the occasions I mention are the times that I remember the dream in detail."

"What are the dreams about?"

Glorfindel considered. Which dream predominantly visited him? Which dream was it easiest to share? "Falling, mostly," he said. "Well, not falling exactly," he amended. "You know how I died."

"Not from you."

Glorfindel glanced up at Elrond, then looked away. "He held me on the way down, turned us so that I was beneath him, so that I would catch the brunt of it. I was facing downwards, but it was okay: looking at blackness was no worse than staring at a shrinking blood red sky." He hesitated. "I feel self-indulgent sharing this; there are others with far worse tales." He thought of Maeglin. He thought of Lindir, likely currently sitting in the back of the realm's string orchestra, playing his fiddle and pretending everything was okay when it was so plain to Glorfindel and likely most that looked at him that everything was distinctly not okay.

"I want to hear it," Elrond prompted quietly.

"Last night, I dreamed of Fingon. Of his blood, anyway. He was injured earlier in the battle - I am speaking of the Fifth Battle - and I happened to help him up, but I got his blood on me. I remember cleaning it out of my hair after his death." Glorfindel skipped over the description; he did not like to dwell on the memory of witnessing it. All that incomprehensible joy in cruelty, all that absurdity that made him question the point of anything. "I felt terrible, washing it away. We were the same age; I grew up with him in Tirion."

"These sound more like memories than dreams," Elrond commented.

Glorfindel looked back at him, at his calm face. He wondered if it meant that Elrond had heard all of this before, variants of it. He was fairly certain that that was exactly the case. He looked away again. "You are right. I dream also, but I worry that they reveal more of my insecurities than I would like to share."

Elrond said nothing. Glorfindel imagined that meant that the half-elf understood this, and knew also that Glorfindel knew that the choice to share was entirely up to him and Elrond had no intention of cajoling him one way or the other. But that he was still standing there was an indication of his willingness to hear him.

"I dream of Lindir sometimes," he confessed. "I hear snatches of what happened to him and I dream about it. All kinds of terrible things, and I hate it." He sighed. "I dream of Maeglin too: what I heard whisper of what happened to him, although I doubt that Maeglin would have actually told anyone what really happened between him and Morgoth. I fear it was far worse."

He looked back at Elrond. "See, I think it is anxiety."

The half-elf looked thoughtful. "As I recall you used to be close to Lindir," he said.

"I used to be close to Maeglin too," Glorfindel added.

"Well, you are too far from Aman to affect Maeglin," Elrond said. "But Lindir is proximate. So proximate that he has an appointment with me in these rooms this morning. Regardless, I think that a little leave might give you an opportunity to rekindle your friendship with him, if you miss his company."

"I do," Glorfindel said. "I considered inviting him to accompany me to Imladris when I first came here." If he had, Lindir would have avoided that fateful diplomatic trip to Mirkwood.

"You wish you had?"

"Now I do, aye."

"You are not responsible, Glorfindel."

"Only I am, Elrond," Glorfindel replied quietly. "Counterfactually, if I had, then he would have never gone to Mirkwood when he did."

"Counterfactually, we are all responsible for every evil. And counterfactuals aside, every time something good and right happens, to affirm that is to affirm all the hate and cruelty and wrongness which has ever happened and which will happen," Elrond retorted. "Are you really about to reason yourself into doing nothing?"

"You tell me," Glorfindel snipped. "I have the anxiety. What am I to do with it except to try to remind myself that I cannot avoid acting so I may as well decide on what I want to see in the world and try to perform it… and try my best not to contribute to any tears whilst I am at it. Yet here I am, with one useless arm and a lot of impotent fussing over things I cannot help." He hesitated, then quickly added, "And my hair is too long as well."

Elrond chuckled gently. "Well, that hair I can trim a little and braid so that it does not get in the way of everything."

Glorfindel smiled weakly. "Well how about instead of that, you do your rounds and - when you see Lindir - send him in to do it?"

The half-elf's face brightened. "I will do that," he said. "That is a wonderful idea."


End file.
